Good Men Go to War
by JustineWho
Summary: Tragedy strikes, and John and Sherlock are left to care for a child. That is until someone returns to seek revenge on Sherlock for the death of his boss. Loosely based on A Good Man Goes to War - Doctor Who. Post-Reichenbach. Action/Adventure. Johnlock if you squint really hard.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"_Thou shalt show me the path of life; in thy presence is the fulness of joy, and at thy right hand there is pleasure for evermore"_

Try as he might, this was it. The wall was crumbling and his shell was cracking.  
He tried to be brave, he tried to be strong, but the levee was breaking and there was nothing that could be done. John Watson's whole body heaved as he dared glance down to where his beloved would eternally lie. A deep mahogany casket shone in the sunlight as it was slowly lowered into the ground.

"_Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our sister departed, and we commit her body to the ground"_

How had he lost her? He fought so hard, he begged her to stay.  
Waves of pain washed over his chest as her screams of agony echoed around his mind.  
How could such a beautiful moment become the worst day of his life? How could he not have seen this coming? Why on Earth couldn't he help?

_"Earth to Earth..."_

He was shaking now, his knees threatening to give way.  
A firm arm snaked around his shoulders, offering the support his own body couldn't provide.  
This wasn't fair, how could he be so cursed? How can the universe put him through so much pain when all he ever did was help people?  
He risked his life to save the lives of men and women he'd never see again – so why did the universe insist on taking away the men and women he knew and loved? It just wasn't fair.

_"Ashes to ashes..."_

John's head swirled, and he felt the arm grow tighter around him. Reality was lost on him.  
This wasn't actually happening, was it? Was he really standing at a graveside? Had he really lost his wife?  
Had his best friend really returned from the dead and convinced him suicide wasn't the solution? Was he really wishing Sherlock would just go away and that Mary would just come back?  
What if he had in fact, just gone insane? Was the man standing next to him a figment? Did he even _have_ a wife? No, not any more. She was lost. All was lost_. Or was it? _He looked up and laid his eyes upon the woman who was once his dear old landlady, more importantly though, he looked at what she bounced gently in her arms. A child, _his child_. He had to brave, he had to be strong. All was not lost, not entirely.

"_Dust to dust..."_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Much to his dismay, Sherlock really didn't have a choice but to invite John and his child back to Baker Street. John was quite lost, and considerably broken, but he was still John. The same John he had sacrificed everything for. The baby on the other hand, he believed was a terrible inconvenience. All it did was scream and cry and demand John's attention at all times, day or night. It only took a week before he started to really reconsider his offer, and return to his life of friendless solitude. But Sherlock Holmes was many things, and heartless wasn't one of them (contrary to popular belief).

As the months passed, John healed and eventually started to resume his regular day-to-day activities. The outside world appeared less frightening to him, and the pain that was caused by looking at his child eventually subsided. But the longer he stayed at Baker Street, the more he wanted to leave. Sherlock had grown incredibly agitated by the presence of John's daughter, and became even more impossible to deal with than ever before. Arguments became as regular as clockwork, and eventually it led to one explosive row where both parties had eventually stepped over the line.

"You selfish, egotistic arse!" John spat, shoving Sherlock so hard he fell back into his chair.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You can't just tell me to 'get rid' of my daughter, Sherlock!" He was fuming, he couldn't think straight, _how could Sherlock be so cruel?_

"We were fine before the baby, John! Now all we do is fight, so removing the child from the situation would eradicate any issues... Mostly" as Sherlock spoke, he knew everything he was saying was completely wrong, he knew he was pushing at a boundary that shouldn't be touched but he persisted anyway, for reasons he wasn't even sure of.

"You were dead before her, Sherlock. You were dead! There was no 'we'! You have no damn choice in the matter!"

"I was dead because I was saving your life!"

"Yeah, and I wish you stayed dead! I wish you were gone! I was fine without you, I grew to live without you! I found Mary and I was happy, we had a life together! And if I had the option, I would swap you with her in heartbeat".  
Within seconds, John regretted every word that had been said. He had just wished death upon the man who had given up everything, who had saved him on numerous occasions, who his love for was only rivalled by that of his daughter. But Sherlock had been pushing him to the edge for quite some time now. He had said so many hurtful things over the past few weeks and John was just weakened by it all. He found his mind scrambling for the correct apology, but the damage was done. There was nothing that could be said to undo the hate that he had just spat in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was never one to let words and insults get to him, not since he was young. He was so used to it that they just bounced off of him so quickly he barely even noticed them. He and John had argued many times before, and they had both said horrible things to each other, but nothing ever actually hurt or was taken to heart. Well, not until now. John's words had felt sharp, clawing along his chest in a way that he didn't think possible. His mind raced as he sized up the gravity of John's hatred towards him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he dropped his guard. His mind clouded and his stomach ached. He could see John moving around in front of him, mouth moving rapidly and his face was fallen. He could see John's arms reaching out to grab him, but he was constantly out of reach,_ why was that?_ Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of everything going on around him. It was then that he realised that he was in fact moving, how hadn't he noticed that before? He felt his legs carry him down a flight of stairs, and out of the front door. Sherlock started to panic at this point, _where was he going? Had his body somehow gone into autopilot? Did bodies even have an autopilot?_He could feel the world turning around him, his mind swam and clouded his vision. He tried to stop himself, he tried to steady, but had lost complete control of his faculties. His body turned and he thought he could see John standing in the doorway, he appeared to be shouting at him. All of a sudden he felt the Earth drop away beneath his feet, and felt his back slam into the seat of the cab he had apparently hailed.

* * *

Many days had passed before Sherlock returned to Baker Street, unwashed and strung out. He had caved in a moment of weakness, and sought comfort in a habit he had believed was long buried. He had hoped that by now John would have calmed down, and apologise for the words that had cut him so deeply. And as suspected, John did. The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, John was all over him. He begged him to forgive him, begged him to acknowledge the fact that he understood the sacrifices Sherlock had made for him. And in turn, Sherlock apologised for his harsh words against the child.

But from that moment on, things never quite sat the same between the pair. An awkward air hung in the flat, threatening to turn explosive at any moment. The both went about their business, shuffling around and barely exchanging words. And once again, Sherlock found himself climbing the walls.

"How can you not have any cases? Oh you do? You do need me! Go to hell, Lestrade." Sherlock locked his phone and tossed it on the couch. _Have all of London's criminals just stopped being good at what they do? How is so difficult to pull off a decent crime these days? _He stomped around the flat for hours, only stopping every now and then to play his violin. Much to his dismay of course, John's daughter hated it. The moment he drew his bow out across the strings, a loud cry would erupt from John's bedroom, and John would come out forcing him to stop. His life was now a boring and domestic one, and oh how he hated it.

"John, I can't do this any more. It's getting ridiculous."

Night had fallen, and the pair were seated in the living room, the child sleeping silently in John's bedroom.

"Can't do what any more? What are you on about?" John honestly had no clue, no one had spoken in hours and Sherlock's sudden outburst had shocked him out of a reverie he wasn't even aware he had fallen into.

"I can't do anything any more. You've forbidden me from playing my violin and conducting experiments. I have no clients because of the fall I made for you and Moriarty. I have nothing. You have reduced me to _nothing_" Sherlock jumped up out of the chair and gazed out of the window. He could feel John's eyes burning into the back of his skull, he could practically hear his brain thinking, but for some reason he never actually spoke. John remained silent in his chair, unmoving. _This is different, maybe he..._ His thoughts were cut off by a flickering light visible in the window of the building across from him. The light in the window next to it also flicked on, and then a third. He felt his stomach tighten and his whole body tensed. The windows were dripping with paint, _how could this be possible?_

"Sherlock, list-"

"Shut up."

"Sherl-"

"I said _shut up_" his mind was racing, weighing up all the possible solutions. _No, it couldn't be. He was dead. He was properly dead... An accomplice perhaps?_ _Maybe ev-_ he was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of John shouting at him, _how had he not even noticed what was going on? People were just so stupid._

"John, please be quiet and come here immediately."

"No!"

"John, this is important!" he heard John stand up behind him, angrily stomping over to position himself next to him. John followed Sherlock's eyes out of the window and across the street, his skin growing cold with realisation. Written on those windows were three simple letters, three letters that had haunted his memory_. I.O.U._


	3. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! thank you for reading, sorry about the last chapter, it wasn't good, I know. If you've managed to stick around, I applaud you! And I also thank you! Thing's have finally started to pick up, and I wrote in a little bit of angst just 'cause. Thanks again!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

It had been a week since the warning had been delivered, and absolutely nothing had happened. Scotland Yard had been alerted, as well as Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. Surveillance had been placed on Baker Street, and Sherlock was positively seething.

"Why hasn't anything happened yet? Why?" words were flying out of his mouth rapidly as he stomped around the living room. John cooed quietly to his child, trying to keep her quiet.

"Sherlock, from where I'm standing, no news is good news."

He hadn't spoken about it, but John was positively terrified. His daughter was potentially in the line of fire, and it was all because of his connection with Sherlock Holmes. He had actually forgotten about how dangerous it could be to live with him, and now his daughter's life was potentially in great peril. How could he ever forgive himself if something happened to her?

"John, when it comes to Moriarty... Or _friends _of Moriarty, no news is particularly bad, in case you've forgotten".

The silence carried on for weeks after this, and the more John seemed to relax, the more Sherlock tensed up. Something was wrong, and he knew it. He had done everything he could think of to get this case under-way – tested the paint on the windows, searched high and low for traces of hair or fingerprints, but to no avail. Whoever they were dealing with was good, _very _good.

"Are you going to get that?"

John interjected into his thoughts, a habit that irritated Sherlock to know end. He didn't even know where John was.

"Hmm?"

"The door? It's buzzing" _so? He never got the door, why would he be expected to do so now?_ As expected, Mrs Hudson bustled into the flat with a small package in her hand.

"Sherlock dear, this came for you", she placed the package down on John's empty chair and shuffled out of the room whilst quietly mumbling about the build up of dust within the flat. _Oh do shut up... Oh._ Sherlock's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.

"John... We've received a package at 9:30 at night"

He still wasn't entirely sure on John's whereabouts, but he never took his eyes from the clock. His mind turned over a new and different idea as each second ticked past. Everything was finally starting, it didn't take a genius to work that one out. John stepped into the living room carrying two mugs, the aroma of Earl Gray filling the air. Placing the tea down on the coffee table, John reached for the package and tenderly took it into his hands.

"Sherlock... Do we open this?"

His eyes slowly slid off the clock and down the wall; millions of ideas all racing through his mind at once. His eyes continued to trace along the floor, gradually turning to look up at the small parcel resting in John's hands.

"Give it to me."

John silently obliged, and Sherlock closely inspected it. _Not stamped, hand delivered. Typical brown packing paper, addressed to Mr Sherlock Holmes; Baker Street. No unit number, no post code – most definitely hand delivered. _He ran his nose along the corners of the small box. _No detectible traces of gun powder, or any sort of explosive for that matter. _

"The writing is male, someone who is sure of his hands. Dominant, arrogant, probably military. The writing is smudged, being pushed to the right – most definitely left handed in this case."

"_Sherlock_, is it safe?"

"Yes."

John watched as Sherlock slid his finger under the brown paper, opening it with extreme caution. He noted that Sherlock wasn't trusting himself entirely, even against his own deductions.

"Sherlock, before you continue, I need you to be honest with me. Does this box even have the slightest possibility of being rigged with some kind of explosive? There are some things you are going to have to tell me, I have a child living in this house! I can't put her in danger!"

Sherlock shot him a scathing look and continued to open the package.

"John, I told you it was safe! Don't doubt me", and with that, Sherlock tore off the paper and inspected the box. It was nothing special. Plain, deep brown and slightly glossed. No finger prints were visible, so the sender of the package obviously took a lot of care when preparing it. He sniffed the opening and listened intently – _yes, it was most definitely safe. _Upon affirmation, he opened the box – if not slower than he had intended.

John looked on as Sherlock peered inside, his heart accelerated. Sherlock, he observed, had a look of indifference on his face. It wasn't common, and usually John quite enjoyed seeing the world's only consulting detective not quite sure of what to make out in front of him. _But this time?_ It just caused him to feel terrified.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

He didn't get a response.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock silently looked up and decided he had no choice but to confront John on this matter. He handed John the box and watched his eyes grow wide. _Not good. _ Sherlock knew the up-and-coming game would be dangerous, he knew this would happen, he just elected not to acknowledge it.

John tipped the box's contents into his hand and stared at it, his mouth agape. He kept looking to Sherlock for answers, even though they both knew Sherlock didn't need to say a thing. But John was desperate for a different answer, desperate for an immediate solution. In his hand sat a small, pink pacifier. It appeared to be new, so it wasn't taken from the flat – but the threat was still obvious.

"_Amelia..._"

John dropped the box and its contents to the floor and ran from the room, returning moments later holding his child in a protective embrace; fear written across his entire face.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled.

"Lestrade... We've received a package, it's all starting. As much as I hate requesting the assistance of the Yard... There's been a threat. No, not to me you moron! To John's baby..."

Sherlock made a similar call to his brother, and it wasn't long until security had doubled outside of 221. Sherlock threw himself into his chair, and pressed his fingers to his lips. He watched as John paced around the room – he hadn't spoken since he saw the package, save whispering quietly into Amelia's ear. Amelia gurgled and turned in John's arms to look at Sherlock, locking onto his eyes. He felt an uncomfortable pang rise in his stomach, causing him to shift in his seat. Although surprisingly enough, he continued to hold the child's gaze.

She had the same eyes as John, but her face held the image of her mother, with a soft tuft of red hair atop her head. More than once he had noticed the affection growing for Amelia and had immediately tried to suppress it, the last thing he needed was to have to worry about a tiny, drooling human. John was supposed to do that, not him. But this was John's _child_, a direct product of him. Motherless, with no one but a grieving father who wasn't even able to look at her for well over a month of her new life.  
Sherlock tried to think back and imagine his life without his mother, and nearly shuddered at the thought. It had hurt him enough losing her when he was 27.

Sherlock knew he had to protect Amelia, not for his sake (mostly), but for John's. He knew John couldn't handle it; he had experienced the loss of loved ones far too much over the past three years to even remotely handle the death of his child. The pang in Sherlock's stomach continued to rise, and eventually spread over his chest.  
He recognised this feeling – it was guilt. He had experienced it whilst watching John try to cope with Sherlock's suicide. It was one of the worst emotions he had ever actually experienced, and hated how in every situation it arose in, he had no choice but to suffer through it.  
It was his fault for playing such dangerous games, and for putting everyone around him in danger. It was his fault for enjoying it so much.  
It was his fault a direct threat had been made to John's child. It was his fault if she didn't make it through to the end. It was his fault if John had to watch his baby die. It was his fault if he lost John. He wasn't even sure he could handle the loss of John. It was his fault he acted on selfish impulse alone.

_It was, wasn't it?_

He looked up and noticed John had been observing him, with the strangest expression played out across his face. He remembered he had made sure John had never caught him watching Amelia, for a multitude of reasons he didn't think was necessary to even think about right now. Mixed into John's fear and impending tears was the realisation (and slight amusement) of the fact that, as it turns out, Sherlock did have room in his heart for one more person.  
The idea of such sentiment caused Sherlock to roll his eyes and rise from his chair, stepping towards the window.

"Nothing will happen to her."

He heard a rush of air leave John's body in relief. But only mere seconds later he heard him suck in again, with the sound of a stifled scream echoing across the flat. Sherlock spun around to find John stepping behind him, for safety of Amelia more than anything. Across the room stood a man with shaggy hair, smothering Mrs Hudson's mouth with his hand, and pointing a gun directly at Sherlock.

"Boys, pleasure to finally meet you!"

He laughed and pulled the trigger, the bullet flew past both Sherlock and John, hitting the window instead. Seconds later the building across the street exploded in a ball of flame and debris, causing the window to shatter in and shower them with glass.  
Sherlock quickly guided John and Amelia to the table, shouting at him to crawl underneath. He turned around to lunge at the man, but he was already gone.  
Instead he ran over to Mrs Hudson, who was crying on the floor, with the initials _S.M_ cut into her cheek.


End file.
